An Autumn Saturday in Birkenhead Park.

An Autumn Saturday in Birkenhead Park.

The lime trees are dressed down
in motley of leaf green and pastel now;
their keys hang sorrowfully earthwards.
Fingers, arms of gold extend,
creeping round the margins of the park.
It is 7 a.m.
and the last clubber keeps it going
on the usual bench.
Shadows are long, sun-dusted.
Here are burnished copper polls
and the beeches are already aflame.
The dew shimmers, breathes a slow sigh,
draws back from its drenching
of the Night Pasture,
of Cannon Hill.
The jackdaws give their first,
soft rebukes of the day.
Leaves are giving themselves up,
ceding to the ground,
leaving their dark stigmata
on pavements.
Later, at 4p.m. dry swirls, scuffed-up
and brittle will be sashayed along by the feet
of Park Road schoolkids.
In brief huffs of wind,
in the closed-down darkness,
the dampened leaves will drag themselves
along the ground or jump
like squat toads crossing roads.
Lights will fly on round the park margins
at 7p.m. for the magic time,
for Friday's sake.